


Milk

by someonestolemyshoes



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Crack, M/M, dairy gone sexual, implied nsfw, this is....crack nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 05:07:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17801588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonestolemyshoes/pseuds/someonestolemyshoes
Summary: Kageyama Tobio loves precisely three things: volleyball, Hinata, and milk. Most days, Kageyama would list them in just that order, from most important to least important, respectively—because while Hinata is his friend, his partner, volleyball is his life—but sometimes…sometimes, milk sneaks up on him, and often, it does so in the most unexpected of ways.





	Milk

**Author's Note:**

> weep woop this is an oldie that is almost entirely [bisc's](http://sparkelingsparkles.tumblr.com/) fault, featuring kagehina and a milky milky mishap

Kageyama is used to waking up to an empty bed. He’s spent the past twenty-something years doing so, which is why it isn’t all too strange to find the mattress stretching barren beside him in the dead of night, but what is strange is that the empty space is _warm_ , oozing heat when Kageyama trails his fingers out over it, flattens his palm to smooth the wrinkles in the bedding.

His mouth is dry, tongue tacky where it sticks behind his teeth, and a taste lingers there, syrupy sweet—intoxicating. For a moment, Kageyama struggles to place it, for it tastes like nothing he usually ingests—not water, not milk, not the sugary slime of energy gels nor the bitter tang of coffee—but before his addled mind can think much further, he spots his first and only clue. A wine bottle, empty and overturned on the bedroom floor.

And then, abrupt even in his sleep-foggy haze, the night comes back to him, a tunnelling chain of snippets as the sky grew dark beyond the window, and the warmth of the wine left the bottle and settled, sweet and heady within him.

He remembers Hinata, nervous on the sofa, hands fiddling between his knees and his wine glass drained on the table before them. He remembers Hinata, thigh pressed tight against his own, silent and shivering even in the heat of the room, huffing anxious little breaths right against Kageyama’s lips as he waited, baited, close but not quite close enough. Frantic touches there in the sitting room, Kageyama’s hand wedged down the back of Hinata’s jeans to palm at him, cup and squeeze the round globes and tease at his hole, pressing and rubbing until Hinata sat red-faced and breathless in his lap, grinding his hardened length into Kageyama’s own through too many layers.

And he remembers Hinata, bare beneath him, pressed into these body-warm sheets with his head tipped back against the pillows and his jaw dropped open, eyes rolled back with every shaky, disbelieving shift of Kageyama’s hips, with the glide of Kageyama’s shivering fingers up his thigh, behind his knee, hooking his calf higher against his hip.

“ _Ka—yama, Tobio–ha—_ ” he remembers, moans that fell hitched and breathless from Hinata’s parted lips, “ _please, m—more_.”

And, when they were done, sweat-slick and panting and pleasantly, indescribably giddy, he remembers falling asleep, hazy and wonderfully satiated, with Hinata curled up in bed right beside him

Heat floods Kageyama’s cheeks and he groans, audibly, twisting his face into his pillow.

For a while, Kageyama waits. The house around him is quiet–no tap or shuffle of feet, no creak of floorboards, no squeak of hinges to be heard–and in the silence, Kageyama wonders if maybe Hinata has left. If he’s snuck out, ashamed or embarrassed or…or regretful, perhaps. Kageyama didn’t think he was _that_ bad; a little rusty, probably, and most definitely over-excited, and the alcohol maybe didn’t help, but surely he did nothing _traumatising_ . And Hinata…Hinata definitely enjoyed himself. Kageyama knows, he _remembers_ , the feel of Hinata clinging at his shoulders, the tight press of thighs at his waist, and the warm, squeezing _heat_ of him around Kageyama’s cock, fluttering as he came.

Kageyama shakes himself out of his head. Now absolutely isn’t the time to be remembering: now is the time to be getting up, and finding out where the hell Hinata got off to.

Kageyama stretches from the bed, and gropes on the floor for his boxers. Their clothing leaves a filthy, tell-tale path from the door to the bed, lit by the low glow of light bleeding around the frame. Kageyama keeps his head down, scooping up items here and there—a shirt, three socks, a pair of jeans Kageyama knows for sure _neither_ of them were wearing last night, and finally, his underwear—and trying his utmost to keep the reply of the night prior from playing in his mind.

Hinata isn’t in the bathroom, like Kageyama had suspected. Neither is he in the sitting room, nor sneaking his way out the front door or any available windows, which Kageyama supposes is probably a good sign.

Instead, he finds him in the kitchen—and stops dead in the doorway, mouth dropped wide open.

Hinata stands, oblivious to his presence. The fridge door is open, but the kitchen light is off, and the glow from the fridge bathes Hinata in the strangest of lights, washing out his pale skin. His hair is messy, moreso than usual, sticking up and out at the oddest of angles, and where the thin light illuminates him, bruises stand out—darkening patches on his hips and thighs, fingerprints and marks left by Kageyama’s eager lips.

Hinata himself wears only a shirt—Tobio’s shirt, too long, hanging halfway down his thighs, and _open_ , exposing…everything. Everything, because while Hinata might have bothered to put a shirt on, he did not bother with a single other item of clothing.

But what bothers Kageyama more than the lighting, and the shirt, and the bedhead and the bruises, is the steady drip-drip-drip of milk from Hinata’s chin as he drinks, straight from Kageyama’s carton.

Kageyama loves precisely three things; volleyball, Hinata, and milk. Most days, Kageyama would list them in just that order, from most important to least important, respectively—because while Hinata is his best friend, his partner (in every sense of the word), volleyball is his _life—_ but sometimes…sometimes, milk sneaks up on him, and often, it does so in the most unexpected of ways.

Like right now, for example. Right now, it pools atop Hinata’s lip as he drinks, a pearly white line growing thicker and thicker until it spills, trailing from the corner of his mouth to his chin. Kageyama watches it slide thick and creamy over his jaw, droplets drawing down his neck, right the way to his bare collar and _oh_ , oh _no._

It shouldn’t be as appetising as it is, but something about the pale, opaque lines cracking further and further down Hinata’s chest is mouthwatering. Kageyama’s stomach simmers warm and his cheeks do the same.

A low, choked groan slips out of Kageyama before he can stifle it, and Hinata jumps, startled. A cascade of milk pours out of the carton and over his chin, sticky and heavy where it spills across his skin. He chokes, and sputters, and Kageyama blinks rapidly, turning his gaze swiftly away.

“Ba— _Bakageyama_ ,” Hinata rasps, coughing. He rubs at his damp face with Kageyama’s sleeve, then, with wide, panicked eyes, darts a hand down to cover himself. He turns, glaring, and a little red-faced. “Don’t sneak _up_ on me like that! What, you trying to give me a heart attack, huh?”

Kageyama says nothing. His eyes remain glued to the milk, drying tacky against Hinata’s chest, and the simmering within him grows to a boil, burning him up.

It’s not…not _just_ the milk—it’s the milk on Hinata, specifically, and the way it pours over him, drips from his pink, plump lips and settles in the hollows at his collar. At least, this is what Kageyama tells himself, as he takes one big stride and then another, crossing the kitchen and stepping up into the glow from the fridge, into Hinata’s personal space.

Up close, Hinata smells vaguely like the wine they’d drunk before bed, and beneath that he smells _heady._ The scent that lingers on him flutters Kageyama’s lashes, sending his mind whirring once more over the night prior–flipping over the picture of Hinata, spreading his thighs wider to accommodate Kageyama’s hips, mouth open and eyes half-lidded, cock hard and red and weeping on his stomach–but what is stronger than that is the rich sweetness of milk soaking him.

“Oi, are you even listening?” Hinata says, twisting and shoving the carton back into the fridge door. He still holds the lid clutched in one hand, and milk sloshes up out of the top of the carton as he slams it onto the shelf. Kageyama blinks, swallows. “You scared me!”

“Sorry.”

“Nuh-uh,” Hinata says. He doesn’t bother cleaning the rest of himself off, and a glistening line of creamy white beads on his upper lip, shimmering in the light from the fridge as he talks. “If you’re gonna say sorry, you gotta mean it! I could’ve choked and _died_ , y'know that?”

“Sorry.”

Truth be told, Kageyama isn’t feeling particularly sorry at all. He isn’t feeling all that much of _anything_ , honestly; just the heat in his gut and an indescribable pull towards Hinata.

He must be frowning, because the closer he gets, the more Hinata’s face shifts, from the grumpy little pout to something a little more wide-eyed, maybe frightened, and then it settles on shakily defensive, and his hands come up in weak little fists before him.

“O—oi,” Hinata says, unsure, and then, “what, are you mad?”

“Not _mad,_ dumbass” Kageyama says, a little dazedly. Words are failing him, he knows, but Hinata is doing nothing to rid himself of his milky coating, and with everything else–with his bareness, his sleepiness, the bruises and the memories of their night still fresh in his mind—Kageyama is struggling to concentrate.

“You angry ‘cuz I drank your milk? Because I wouldn’t have, if you had like, _anything_ else to drink in here, but _all_ you drink is milk and—and…”

Hinata trails away, and for a moment, Kageyama isn’t quite sure why.

“What’re you…?”

Kageyama blinks.

They’re standing even closer than before, impossibly so; Kageyama can feel the warmth of Hinata’s little body even in the chill of the open fridge. Hinata blinks owlishly up at him, and the skin over his cheeks darkens with every passing second, from pale to pink to red, deep in the washed-out lighting. He shuffles, awkward, and pulls the corners of Kageyama’s shirt to cover himself.

“Not mad,” Kageyama says again. He reaches a hand up between them, cups Hinata’s chin in his fingertips. His skin is a little sticky, but he smells _sweet_ , the milk on his lip and at the side of his mouth still cool and wet.

“What’re you doing?”

Kageyama isn’t entirely sure how he is supposed to answer, because every move he makes is seemingly unplanned, bypassing any conscious thought at all. He shrugs, and lifts a hand to cup at Hinata’s jaw, thumb swiping the milk from the edge of his lips.

Hinata catches his gaze, looking equal parts perplexed and thoroughly flustered, and watches open mouthed as Kageyama brings his thumb to his own mouth, and sucks it between his teeth.

“ _Waaah_ , Kageyama!” Hinata groans, bringing both hands to cover his reddened face. “You’re—stop being _weird_.”

A strained little moan eeks its way out of Kageyama’s mouth as he laves his tongue around the digit, wetting it, swallowing down every last bit of flavour from Hinata’s skin. Hinata peeks at him through his fingers, the very tips of his ears flaming.

“So _gross_ , ‘Yama.”

What’s more gross, Kageyama thinks, is the hardness swelling in his boxers, because it is related to Hinata and most certainly related to the milk, a little more than he’s maybe comfortable with.  

“ _You’re_ gross,” Kageyama says, which is…mostly true. Hinata _is_ gross, damp and sticky and stained, but Kageyama isn’t going to complain about it.

Hinata’s gaze roves over him. It travels from the thumb, still sucked between his lips, down his neck to his chest, which rises and falls erratically with his quickened breaths, over his stomach, his waist, down to his underwear, and there it stops, and his eyes bug wide behind his fingers.

“You’re—why are you— _waaah_ , what the hell, Kageyama! Put your—” he lowers his voice, then, and hisses, with every inch of his face glowing an alarming red, “put your _boner_ away.”

“It is away.”

“Put it _more_ away.”

“You’ve already seen it, stupid,” Kageyama says. Hinata glows more vibrant still, and buries his entire face back in his palms, groaning loudly as he does.

“Don’t say that out loud,” he moans.

“And yours is…very much _not_ away,” Kageyama goes on. Hinata groans louder still, and hunches over in an attempt to cover all of himself, every humiliated part he doesn’t want Kageyama to see.

“Mine isn’t doing—” he waves a hand in the little space between them, “— _that_ ,” Hinata says, then he narrows his eyes, and squints up at Kageyama. “Why is yours anyways, huh?”

Kageyama clears his throat.

“We had sex.”

It was supposed to be confident, a bold-faced statement, but his voice breaks on the last word and his cheeks warm with the cracks.

“But we’re not…we’re not having sex _now_. We’re not even…you _know_ . I’m—I’m drinking _milk!_ What, is that it? You get all _gwaaaah_ over milk now?”

Kageyama clears his throat again, but says nothing. As the silence stretches on, Hinata’s expression changes, shifts from something joking, teasing, to disbelieving, and something like clarity dawns slowly on him.

“ _Yamayama_ ,” Hinata teases slowly, fingers catching his snicker from his lips, “I knew you liked milk, but I didn’t know you liked milk _that_ much.”

Kageyama reaches out on instinct, a hand that would normally grab at Hinata’s hair, or his shirt, or else swipe aimlessly at his ducking, weaving body, but today it reaches lightning quick for his jaw, grabbing a little roughly. Hinata’s expression changes abruptly and he gasps, body jerking in closer, curved to press down the length of Kageyama’s own.

Wordlessly, Kageyama leans in to lave his tongue from Hinata’s collar and up, a thick, wet stripe gathering the succulent liquid as he goes, over his jaw, his chin, right up to his mouth and there, Kageyama kisses him, sucks his milky lip between his own, and groans at the flavour. Hinata lets out a whimper, and a whine, when Kageyama drags him closer with a rough hand at his waist, tugging him in flush at the hips.

“Bedroom,” Kageyama says. Hinata grins, stretching on the tips of his toes to knock his forehead to Kageyama’s own. The damp, tacky skin of his chest slides against Kageyama’s, and sticks. Kageyama huffs out a little breath, fisting at the back of Hinata’s shirt.

“Definitely weird,” Hinata breathes, hissing when Kageyama nips sharply at him, and laughing as Kageyama releases him momentarily from his grip, only to grab at the lapels of his shirt and tug him away from the fridge, out of the kitchen and down the hall, back towards the bedroom.

“Wait,” Hinata says, “wait—wait, hang on!” Kageyama stops, and Hinata pries the clawed fingers from his shirt and steps just out of Kageyama’s reach. Kageyama wonders, for a second, if he’s done something horribly, terribly wrong; if this is too fast, if Hinata…if Hinata doesn’t _want_ anything to happen again, but then, a tiny little grin spreads devilishly across the other boys face, and a familiar, feisty fire lights in his eyes.

He side steps slowly around Kageyama, to the bedroom door, and rests one hand on the handle. Then, smiling wide and mischievous, he says, “don’t you want to bring the milk with us?”  

Before Kageyama even has the time to be suitably humiliated, Hinata is darting through the bedroom door, tossing the shirt from his shoulders, laughter ringing as he goes.


End file.
